


More Than Words

by Annanymitea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-03-26 08:42:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19002313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annanymitea/pseuds/Annanymitea
Summary: When John comes down with flu, Sherlock is a more willing caretaker than John could have imagined. As Sherlock's feelings for John become clearer, decisions must be made, and feelings must be declared.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as another sickfic but it is progressing into something else, slowly, so there may be some time between chapter postings depending on how it all works out. Pretend Series 4 ended when John closed the door in the Baker Street flat following The Hug.

John had finished packing Rosie’s diaper bag and was shoving files into his briefcase when Sherlock said, “I wouldn’t be so quick to go to work if I were you.”

John glanced around the sitting room, confused. Sherlock was on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands tented on his chest, having taken up his thinking pose already. “What?” he asked.

“I said I don’t think you should go to the surgery.”

“Well, I’d love to stay home today. But the surgery relies on me now that I’m not a locum anymore. Rosie’s baby-sitter is waiting on me, so I’m going to go. I’ll text you about dinner later.”

Sherlock shrugged, eyes still closed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, rather cryptically. He popped his eyes open and waved at Rosie as John gathered her into his arms. Rosie giggled. John carried her down the stairs and stowed her safely away in her carseat before getting behind the wheel. Owning the car was a matter of convenience now that he had Rosie - easier to not have to rely upon a bike or public transit, although there were aspects of both he missed. Rosie sang merrily in the back seat, John throwing in the odd “baa baa black sheep” as they sped toward the baby-sitter. He kissed her on the head as dropped her off, enjoying the “bye dada” that she shouted to him. The car ride from the babysitter to the surgery every day was some of his only time for quiet reflection.

It had been six months since he had moved back in to Baker Street. Things certainly weren’t perfect, but they were much better than he ever expected them to be after Mary’s death. Following the Culverton Smith ordeal he’d gotten his head straightened out; Sherlock had done the same, sobering up again. John’s network of friends and family had surrounded him with the loving support he needed - coming through in ways he never could have foreseen. As she approached two years old, John felt incredibly fortunate that Rosie had relationships with Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry (who had also sobered up and, in an unexpected turn of events, gotten back together with Clara), Sherlock’s parents, who were visiting more often, and Sherlock himself. And Mycroft, although John wasn’t sure he was glad about that relationship per se.

Sherlock’s affection, tolerance, and protectiveness toward Rosie were another surprise to John. Sherlock had a way with children, perhaps because they were not bound by the social rules and mores that irritated Sherlock to no end. John also suspected he might be performing mild experiments on her to study the way children’s minds worked. It wasn’t harming Rosie - might even be helping her in the long run - so John hadn’t brought it up. Yet.

John’s train of thought was interrupted when he arrived at the surgery. Now that he had Rosie he worked a more standard schedule; living with and sharing expenses with Sherlock meant he only had to work 3 days a week. This schedule also left him time to solve crimes, as long as he worked either when Rosie’s day care was available or accessed the informal care network that included most of the women in his life (Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry, and Clara).

The surgery was busy today. John saw patients typical of a family doctor with a mix of urgent care cases thrown in that all the physicians had to cover. Flu season had fully arrived in London post-holidays this year, and every other patient he saw seemed to be afflicted. 

It was mid-morning while he was putting stitches in a nasty gash in the arm of 23-year-old man that John started to feel a bit off, shivering suddenly mid-way through stitching the wound. He paused in what he was doing to steady his hand and then continued. He finished the stitches, cut the thread, and said, “Next thing we’re going to bandage this up. You’ll want to keep it dry and change the dressing every-” the shivery feeling accompanied by sudden, sharp headache caused him to pause midway.

The young man was looking at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me,” said John. He popped out in the hall, feeling woozy as he did it. “Laura,” he called out to one of his favorite nurses, seated at the nursing stationed. She walked over to him, looking slightly concerned as she did.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“Yeah. Can you bandage the guy in here and explain to him how to care for his stitches?”

“Sure thing, Doctor.” Laura took the chart and went into the exam room while John made his way into an empty adjacent exam room. He just needed a minute, he told himself, sitting on the gurney with his head in his hands, feeling like the world was spinning like a top and that the temperature in the room had dropped 10 degrees in the past 10 minutes. Suddenly a cool hand pressed against his head and he flinched away in sudden surprise, looking up to see that Laura was standing in front of him. “Oh boy. You’ve got it, haven’t you?” she said.

“Got what?” he asked blankly.

“Flu.”

___________

A short while later John opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s face hanging over his upside down. He flinched, waking the aches in his muscles unintentionally. Sherlock straightened up, standing at the head of the gurney John was laying on, his mouth turned down in a frown. “You do look bad,” he commented.

“You knew,” groaned John.

Sherlock’s guilty look confirmed John’s suspicions. “I did try to get you to call off,” he said. “I knew you were ill; didn’t know you had flu. I wouldn’t have let you leave the flat if I knew you were going to end up in this condition.” Sherlock held out his hand to John, ready to pull him to a sitting position. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

When his temperature had registered at 39 degrees the nurses had thought it was best to call his emergency contact, which was of course Sherlock, to drive him home. John didn’t enjoy the fuss that was being made over him, but by that point his head was spinning sufficiently that he wasn’t sure he would be able to make it back to the flat on his own steam. John glanced at his watch; he had been dozing on the gurney for about an hour. He should have been making plans for Rosie. As Sherlock shifted impatiently waiting for him to get to his feet, he pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Calling Rosie’s sitter,” John replied, attempting to clear his throat. Great. Now that was going to start up hurting too. He felt like he had been hit by a lorry.

“Already taken care of.” Sherlock said quickly. “She’s staying with Harry and Clara for a few days. Don’t want her to be around you when you’re wildly contagious.”

“She had a flu jab,” John said.

“Mmmm yes, so did you.” Sherlock’s eyes swept over him. “And look at you now. Do you think you get to the car or shall I have them get you a wheelchair?

“No.” John grimaced. “Stop looking at me that way. It makes me feel like a corpse. What’s that bag in your hands?”

“Various medicines and directions as to your care. The nurses were concerned and wrote everything out for me. We’re going to follow them or you might be a corpse.”

John snorted laughter. “I’ll be fine. Just get me home. And thank you.” He felt almost pathetically grateful to have Sherlock there to help him.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Now we know how badly I do without you, I wouldn’t want any undue risk to your life. Come on.” Protectively, Sherlock gripped John’s arm and pulled him toward the door.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New section added to chapter on 5/30.

Making it up the seventeen stairs to the flat was a feat John would have to congratulate himself on in the future. His chest was burning with discomfort by the time he reached the top. When Sherlock unlocked the door he limped his way to the couch and collapsed, groaning inarticulately.  He closed his eyes but could hear Sherlock moving around the flat, going upstairs to his bedroom, then rummaging around in the kitchen and bathroom. Something thunked down on the coffee table and John squinted his eyes open. Sherlock had placed a glass of water next to him and was looming over him with a pair of cotton pajama pants and a long sleeved tee-shirt. “They said they gave you ibuprofen at the surgery, but you ought to have a glass of water.” Sherlock said, putting the clothes down on the arm of the sofa. And here are some comfortable clothes.”

The water made John realize he was desperately thirsty. He sat up, shivers running through him once again, and downed half the glass. Swallowing felt like knives. They _had_ given him ibuprofen but it was clearly not going to be sufficient to alleviate flu symptoms. Sherlock walked into the kitchen and out of John’s line of vision. John began to change, thinking as he pulled on the tee-shirt that Sherlock was being rather surprisingly intuitive about his illness. A thought occurred to him and he asked, “How did you know I was sick?”

“What?”

“You said at the surgery you knew I was getting sick, but you didn’t realize it was flu. How did you know I was sick?”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock said. “You have signals you subconsciously give off when you’re getting ill.”

“What? Like what? You can’t know I’m sick before I do.”

“I can and I do; statistically I’ve been able to tell up to 12 hours before you show visible outward symptoms as much as 80% of the time that you’re coming down with an upper respiratory infection.” Sherlock poked his head back into the sitting room. “ I can’t tell you about the signs, though. You’re a terrible patient and you hate admitting when you’re sick. If I tell you, you would alter your behavior if possible to avoid detection. Do you need help getting those clothes on?”

“No.” John noticed Sherlock’s eyes lingering on him a few moments longer than he would expect. _Judgmental know-it-all_ , he thought. John stalked off to the bathroom to change his pants and use the toilet. When he emerged, Sherlock intercepted him in the hallway and ushered him gently towards his bedroom.

“Where are we going?” asked John.

“You can use my bedroom tonight.”

“Why?” John was shocked. Although he and Sherlock had been back on good terms since he’d moved back in, he still sometimes felt like there were barriers between them. This was a remarkably intimate thing for Sherlock to allow. Before that Time, before Mary, they had shared any number of intimate moments. But since Sherlock’s return from the dead they had been fewer, and since Mary’s death, only The Hug. John stopped his wandering thoughts and tried to focus. “I can go up to my room.”

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t expect go up and down stairs with a 39-degree temperature, and you’re too sore to lay on the couch all night.”

“It’s not night time yet.”

“No, but you’re done in. Lay down and go to sleep. Here’s some tea if you want it.”

Sherlock set a mug of tea down on his nightstand and pulled back his comforter and sheets so John could get in. John didn’t know what to make of this Sherlock that glanced nervously at him. It wasn’t a demeanor he was accustomed to from the detective. He hadn't acted this odd since getting sober. John lay down in the bed and Sherlock stood, staring off into space momentarily. “Are you all right, Sherlock?”

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock hummed noncommittally. His eyes were darting over John’s figure and face - deducing. What did he see? After a moment, he turned to the door. “Call me if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” John quoted Sherlock’s own line right back to the main himself, smiling.

Sherlock smirked back at him, one of their familiar inside jokes. “Get some rest,” he said, making his way back down the hall.

Something about the way Sherlock was acting made John want to puzzle on their time together, but between his aching muscles, burning throat, and oncoming congestion, his brain couldn’t quite form coherent thoughts. He coughed into his elbow, turning over in Sherlock’s bed, and happily breathed in the scent of his flatmate as sleep dragged him down into darkness.

____________

For the next 36 hours John spent most of his time in a twilight state somewhere between consciousness and sleep, as his body was wracked with fever, body aches, congestion, and cough, the hallmarks of flu. When he was able to notice things beyond his own misery, he observed with surprise that Sherlock hardly left his orbit. Sometimes he was able to focus his awareness on what was happening, catching pieces of conversation as Sherlock answered phone calls.

“Yes, Mycroft, what I’m telling you is this year’s flu jab is ineffective,” Sherlock snapped. “His clinic was clogged with sufferers and now John’s down with it. I don’t care. Find someone and tell them to fix it. No, he’s not well at all. Yes, of course I can take care of him myself.”

Also…"No. I can’t possibly, not tonight. He’s very poorly. Yes, have the file sent over.”

And later as Sherlock ran Rosie’s temporal thermometer across his forehead, “His temperature’s hit 40 degrees. Do you think I need to take him the clinic?” A pause. “No, Mrs. Hudson, don’t come up here. I don’t want you exposed. If it doesn’t go down I’ll take him in.” Another pause. “Yes, that’s a good idea, I’ll try that.”

The next thing John knew Sherlock was mopping his head and neck with a wet flannel. It felt phenomenal. “John,” Sherlock said, voice low and intimate. “Sit up for a minute. You need some water and more tablets.” 

John pushed up into a sitting position, coughing. He drank the water and swallowed the tablets. It was dark in the room, the only light coming in from the hall. “Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, studying him. “I appreciate your help.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock assured him quickly. And it was evident that he did not, in fact, mind taking care of John, no matter how surprising that seemed. Sherlock kept John’s water glass full, encouraging him to drink periodically; he sat on his own bed beside John, playing on his phone and reading the newly-acquired case file; he fetched John from the hallway when he got woozy and sat down on the way back from the bathroom. During the night at one point John rolled over and noted that Sherlock was asleep beside him but on top of the covers, incoming light from the streetlamps highlighting his sharp cheekbones. And at another point, when John woke from a nightmare with a sharp cry coming from his throat, he found that Sherlock was patting his back and shushing him gently, as the man sometimes did to Rosie. “You’re fine, John. You’re safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's ability to deduce that John is sick before he has symptoms is actually based on my husband's uncanny ability to do so with me. There is one occasion I can name where he literally knew I had a cold before I did, and another when he took one look at me after work and said "you're sick, aren't you?" when the only symptoms I had were a burning in my nose and a sore throat - nothing externally noticeable. It's a weird trait that I wouldn't believe if I hadn't experienced it first-hand.


	3. Chapter 3

John drifted into consciousness and opened his eyes to the dim light of what he believed to be early morning. Where was he? Oh, right, Sherlock’s room. Where was Sherlock? A quick glance around showed that he was still lying atop the duvet that covered the bed, arm stretched out towards John.  

John’s shirt was damp with sweat, indicating that his fever had broken. Carefully he shifted his way out of the bed and made his way to the bathroom. His lowered temperature meant that he was less dizzy and disoriented but symptoms were still making themselves known, from sore arms and legs to sinuses that felt like they were packed with glue. Being a medical man he knew full recovery was undoubtedly still days away, barring a miracle. He used the toilet and splashed his face with water, removing his damp tee- shirt.

 _Speaking of miracles_ , he thought as he headed back toward the bedroom, _how is it that Sherlock Holmes is playing nursemaid?_ John did not doubt that Sherlock cared for him deeply. Although the methods by which he expressed his feelings were as unconventional as the man himself, Sherlock had saved John’s life on many occasions and in many ways - recently at great personal sacrifice.

As for the matter or nursemaiding, John had shepherded Sherlock through a number of minor injuries, close to a dozen colds, and on one memorable occasion, strep throat. And then there had been the time he spent caring for the man through withdrawal, sitting with him for hours while he shivered or vomited. John had never required or attracted Sherlock’s care in a similar manner.

This could also be accounted for by their varying styles of dealing with illness. Sherlock Holmes with a cold moped dramatically about the flat, monopolizing the couch, soaking up John’s attention as a medical professional while frequently spurning his advice. John was more of the hunker-down-and-shut-himself-in-a-bedroom type when suffering from minor illness, and Sherlock typically had taken the hint and left him to it, except for one occasion where John had been roused from his sickbed for a case (John paid for that with a raging sinus infection; Sherlock paid for it by having to put up with a raging flatmate for a week). It was said that doctors often make the worst patients, and John Watson was no exception. Fortunately, he did not often suffer from incapacitating illness.

In fact, the last time he’d had flu was during That Time, as in That Time When He’d Thought Sherlock Was Dead. Mary had been around. Among her many attractive qualities, Mary had been a good caretaker - good to him and good to Rosie for the short time Rosie had her. In fact, it was nursing John through flu that had taken their relationship from casual and fun to “now I’ve seen you a bit nasty but it doesn’t change that I want to shag you.”

Those were the thoughts running through John’s head as shuffled back into Sherlock’s room. For a moment as he regarded the man peacefully sleeping, John considered going up to his own room so as not to wake him. Unfortunately he was still in a bad enough state that the journey from the bathroom had exhausted him. He crawled back into the bed, trying to cause as little disturbance as possible. As he settled, Sherlock moved toward him in his sleep. John felt his body relax in Sherlock’s presence, unaccountably. He began to drift back towards slumber himself, and if it had been only moments later he might not have heard the single word Sherlock sighed in the voice of a lover: “ _John._ ”

The word went through John like a bolt of lightning. The confluence of thinking about his early romance with Mary, about how she - just like Sherlock the past few days - had been willing to mop his brow and make him tea, in conjunction with hearing Sherlock utter his name in that tone created the perfect storm for him for an idea: was it possible that Sherlock Holmes, the man who was married to his work, known once upon a time to Moriarty as The Virgin, was attracted to him?


	4. Chapter 4

John awoke again when the sun was fully up. He padded out to the main part of the flat, where he stood briefly between the sitting room and kitchen, examining Sherlock as he looked into his microscope, wondering if and how they were going to talk about the fact that they had just spent the night in Sherlock's bed together.

“Your fever broke during the night,” Sherlock observed without looking at him, “but it’s starting to go back up again.”

“Only a bit,” John croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper. He coughed into the crook of his arm, making his way over to the sofa, and lowered himself gingerly due to sore muscles. “That’s to be expected.”

“Water.” Sherlock pointed at a glass that had been filled and set on the coffee table. John drank. “We can’t have Rosie back until your temperature is normal for 24 hours.”

John groaned, instantly regretting the use of his voice. Sherlock had grabbed some items off the counter and set a bowl and mug in front of John. “Oatmeal. Tea.”

“Thank you,” John said, sniffling. 

“Tissues are on the floor beside the sofa,” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he headed back into the kitchen. John wondered briefly if he had imagined Sherlock sighing his name in the early morning hours. But he knew it had happened. In the past Sherlock had hurled the accusation at him: _you see but you do not observe_. Now John wondered if Sherlock had perhaps been more right than John was willing to admit. Well, thanks to flu, now he had uninterrupted time to do both: to see and observe.

For the next two days while he recovered, John more carefully and deliberately considered his interactions with Sherlock. Sherlock had slipped back out of caretaker mode now that John was more himself. And yet John could see how things that he had once seen as Sherlock being Sherlock, or being from the intensity of their relationship, could be attraction - assuming that Sherlock experienced attraction. The long, lingering stares. The glances at his lips. The detailed and intimate knowledge of John’s habits, preferences and moods. Any of these signs could be a Sherlockian way of existing...or attraction. John couldn’t be sure.

Rosie was able to come home by the end of the week. Things at 221B Baker Street resumed their normal rhythm. John quietly considered what he should do next.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Three weeks later John found himself across from Mycroft Holmes in the Diogenes Club. Contacting Mycroft was something he never did lightly. It took John realizing not just that Sherlock might be attracted to him, but that, yes, he still was attracted to Sherlock that finally forced John to reach out.

Being attracted to men was not a completely new thing for John. He’d had a few flings with men, all purely physical. Of course, John already cared deeply for Sherlock. That made the actions he was considering completely new territory - not just a physical affair, but a declaration of true feelings. Perhaps a declaration of love. Throughout his life, it had been as he’d told Irene Adler: he did not identify as gay.

As far as John could tell Adler had been the only person that brought out romantic feelings and questions about Sherlock’s sexuality, though it had all amounted to nothing, even after John told Sherlock to reach out to her following Mary’s death. He knew they texted sometimes but if they met in person, ever, it was not something John was privy to. Then again, Sherlock was an intensely private human being. It was difficult for John to truly know what he felt, or what he did in his free time. The more John had ruminated on it, the more he realized that if Sherlock was attracted to him, and he shared that feeling, he wanted to act on it. But he was terrified of what would happen if he brought it up and was wrong.

That’s where Mycroft came in. If there was anyone with knowledge of Sherlock and his little-known desires or habits, it was his older brother. Which was how John Watson ended up with a sipping Scotch, steeling himself to share his most closely-held and intimate suspicions with a man he barely trusted.

When the two had made it through superficial pleasantries, John took a deep breath and came out with it. “I’ve been noticiting - been think - I think Sherlock might have feelings for me,” he stumbled over the words.

Mycroft stared at him for what had to be nearly a minute. John  was still for as long as he could be, then pursed his lips and fidgeted nervously. Another 30 seconds passed and John was about to break the now-awkward silence, when Mycroft finally spoke. “You’re serious?”

_ Oh, God _ , thought John,  _ I’ve got it all wrong.  _ Out loud he said, “I know - it’s a bit - I was surprised, too.”

“No, no,” said Mycroft, holding up his hand. “You misunderstand me. I mean you’re serious that  _ you didn’t know _ ?’

John gaped, confused. “Didn’t know....what?”

Mycroft snorted. “You really didn’t. Lestrade owes me 50 quid. We’ve had a bet going for a few years now. I was relatively certain that you were utterly unobservant of my brother. Lestrade thought you were possibly just cruel.”

“I’m sorry,” John was shaking his head, “I don’t think I follow. You were betting on what now?”

Mycroft stood up, agitated, and began pacing. “ _ Of course _ Sherlock has feelings for you. He faked his own death to protect you. He stood up beside you on your wedding day even though it had to be eating him alive inside. For God’s sake, the man nearly killed himself to rouse you out of depression and get you to speak to him again. He’s been in love with you for years. How could you be so thick?”

John’s stomach felt like it had dropped onto the floor. “Wait, are you - you’re saying Sherlock’s in love with me?”

“ _ Yes, _ you goldfish!” 

Mycroft had stopped in front of John, was looming over him. John stood up, heated a bit with anger.  “Just a minute now, Mycroft. Back off a bit. Your brother made it clear from the beginning he was married to his work. He never showed any interest in anyone that I could observe. How was I to know?”

“Sit down,” Mycroft said, making his way back to his own seat as well. “Don’t exert yourself, you still look too thin from your bout of flu. If you relapse after seeing me, I’ll have to listen to another lecture about your health from my brother.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “So now you know Sherlock Holmes’ greatest secret. What are you going to do with it?”

John had picked up the snifter of Scotch, looking down as he swirled the golden liquid. “I’m not quite sure yet. Do you have any tips on romancing a Holmes?”


	6. Chapter 6

It took John a few days to recover from the shock of what Mycroft had revealed. During that time his life continued as normal. Rosie was an endless source of fascination for John and Sherlock alike. Also an endless source of exhaustion, as she had taken to waking up in the middle of the night again. As a doctor he knew this was normal; as a parent it was frustrating and tiring.

On the fifth consecutive night waking he was feeling particularly grouchy knowing he had a full day with patients the following morning. He had taken Rosie out of her crib and laid her in the bed, patting her back, hoping it would send her back into slumber. As his arm grew tired, he heard a knock on his bedroom door and before he could respond, Sherlock was in his bedroom.

“I can take her,” he offered in his soft rumble, his intimate voice sending a tingle up John's spine.

“You don’t have to do that,” John said.

“Why not? I’m up. You don’t want to be. You’re exhausted. This is the fourth - no, wait - fifth night in a row she’s woken up.”

John wavered. Rosie was his responsibility; having her was a privilege and he didn’t want to screw it up the way he had nearly screwed up his marriage right before Mary died. He sometimes wondered now if that was why the universe took her away. Because he was an arsehole texting some hot young thing in the middle of the night while she took care of his daughter. Her number was long-deleted but the stain remained on his conscience. In some ways he would be working off that sin for the rest of his life, and part of that was being the best possible father to Rosie that he could be.

“John?” Sherlock asked, and he jumped, realizing he had been staring off into space. He really was exhausted.

“Yeah, ok, go ahead and take her. Thank you”

Sherlock held out his hands and Rosie reached out her arms to him. They both looked happy as Sherlock swept her up and carried her out of the room. John’s found himself unexpectedly swallowing around a lump in his throat. He realized it was watching the two people he loved - yes, he now could say it to himself, loved - most in the world in perfect contentment to be with one another. It was like a tidal wave sweeping over him, the firm and complete knowledge that he wasn’t just attracted to Sherlock, didn’t just desire him or care for him, but loved him. 

In fact, it occurred to John that that love had been an undercurrent all along.  It had been close to the surface in the first few years, peeking through at odd moments while they dashed about London and beyond, working cases, sharing space and food and laughter. Their bond was so complete that any woman that came into his life couldn't compete; they drifted in and out of his attention like leaves on an autumn wind while he remained fully captivated and in the thrall of Sherlock. And during The Time John had finally faced up to his feelings, alone. Understood that he had not only loved a man that he believed could never loved him back, but that now that man was gone forever. Then Sherlock had returned, terribly too late, when John’s heart and commitment lay with someone else. After Mary died he couldn’t dream or think or hope for anything except getting through the day, but as Mycroft had pointed out, Sherlock had pulled him out of that. Had saved him, like so many times before. There could now be no question that John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes - consulting detective, intrepid flatmate - who was proving to be not just a great man, but a good one.

John drifted off to sleep, secure in his knowledge; figuring out how to tell Sherlock could wait until morning.


End file.
